Shank had gone off with Ritson not long after the sailing of the Walrus. On reaching America, and hearing of the failure of the company that worked the gold mine, and of old Ritson’s death, they knew not which way to turn. It was a tremendous blow, and seemed to have rendered them reckless, for they soon took to gambling. At first they remained in New York, and letters came home pretty regularly, in which Shank always expressed hopes of getting more respectable work. He did not conceal their mode of gaining a livelihood, but defended it on the ground that “a man must live!”
For a time the letters were cheerful. The young men were “lucky.” Then came a change of luck, and a consequent change in the letters, which came less frequently. At last there arrived one from Shank, both the style and penmanship of which told that he had not forsaken the great curse of his life—strong drink. It told of disaster, and of going off to the “Rockies” with a party of “discoverers,” though what they were to discover was not mentioned.
“From that date till now,” said May in conclusion, “we have heard nothing about them till this letter came from Mr Ritson, telling of dear Shank being so ill, and asking for money.”
“I wish any one were with Shank rather than that man,” said Charlie sternly; “I have no confidence in him whatever, and I knew him well as a boy.”
“Nevertheless, I think we may trust him. Indeed I feel sure he won’t desert his wounded comrade,” returned May, with a blush.
The youth did not observe the blush. His thoughts were otherwise engaged, and his eyes were at the moment fixed on a far-off part of the shore, where Captain Stride could be seen urging on the joyful Scraggy to his fruitless labours.
“I wish I could feel as confident of him as you do, May. However, misfortune as well as experience may have made him a wiser, perhaps a better, man. But what troubles me most is the uncertainty of the money that Mr Crossley is going to send ever reaching its destination.”
“Oh! if we only knew some one in New York who would take it to them,” said May, looking piteously at the horizon, as if she were apostrophising some one on the other side of the Atlantic.
“Why, you talk as if New York and Traitor’s Trap were within a few miles of each other,” said Charlie, smiling gently. “They are hundreds of miles apart.”
“Well, I suppose they are. But I feel so anxious about Shank when I think of the dear boy lying ill, perhaps dying, in a lonely place far far away from us all, and no one but Mr Ritson to care for him! If I were only a man I would go to him myself.”